Embers
by Lindemacil
Summary: Oneshot, during RotS. One of Amidala's former handmaidens ponders the Senator's death and her new role in life.


Summary: The handmaidens in attendance at Amidala's funeral, focusing on Yané. Later, she travels to Varykino and makes a final decision.

Disclaimer: Not my property. Just borrowing the characters and setting for a bit.

Please, read and enjoy!

* * *

The flames of the pyre crackled and snapped as they took what was left of Amidala and turned her to ash. All around her, Naboo mourned. They circled her: rings in the funeral temple, crowds in the streets of Theed, small groups in villages dotted over the planet. No matter the hour, no matter the weather, all eyes turned toward Theed and mourned the loss of Naboo's brightest star. 

Against the wall of the funeral temple stood the handmaidens, dressed in night-gray robes, each of them a shadowy memory of Amidala and what she had been to Naboo. They stood in a ring, fourteen handmaidens in all, many of whom had not worn the mantle of a handmaiden in over five years.

Yané Berne stood in her assigned place, her head lowered, her eyes resting on the rounded ends of her soft, handmade shoes. To her right, Rabé shuddered with grief and rocked uneasily on her feet. On her other side, Eirtaé tilted her head, and the soft black cloth covered her sightless eyes melted into the darkness of her hood. The accident that had taken her sight had occurred in the beginning of the Clone Wars, and it did not surprise Yané that the noble lady had taken her disability with all the elegance and grace bestowed upon her by the gods. She still stood tall and proud, an unwavering symbol of Naboo perseverance.

They knew each other by name and by sight, even those who had not served Amidala together. They had come from every corner of the planet, from the marble-lined streets of Theed and the tiniest mountain village. Some came from wealth; at least two were the daughters of farmers. Most had soft brown hair that resembled Amidala's; others, like Eirtaé, were chosen for their various talents and not their appearances.

They had only one thing in common: they had all pledged to protect their lady with their very lives.

Yané lifted her head just enough to see the great hooded figures of Motté and Ellé, standing across from her on the other side of the pyre. Their tear-silvered eyes held secrets, and Yané wanted to run to them and shake them until the secrets came pouring out of them. Why hadn't they been there for her? Why hadn't they done their duty?

Why was she dead while they still lived?

As the fire took Amidala, Yané remembered the first time she stood next to the other handmaidens in this same temple. If she narrowed her eyes, the scene from those many years ago manifested before her, and instead of a Senator, a Jedi lay on the pyre, given the honors of any loyal son of Naboo. For a moment, she saw Amidala in her queenly youth, standing next to an unbraided Padawan and a small, frightened boy. Amidala stepped forward to accept the ashes of Master Jinn, and the boy began to cry softly –

No, it was not Amidala who stepped forward – it was her parents, placing an ivory urn in the hands of the funeral attendants. For a moment, Yané had thought this was just a dream, skewed by a flitting memory of the past. But now with the fire dying and the ashes stirred by a gentle breeze off the river, she could no longer lie to herself.

The attendants gathered the ashes in the urn, and Yané knew that she would never again bear the trappings of a handmaiden. With Amidala gone, she would have no reason to. Nothing prevented her from going astray of the vows she had spoken at Amidala's coronation; her loyalty was no longer required.

In her heart, however, she would never leave the service of her Lady. She knew this even as the Naberries carried Amidala's urn to the parapet at the edge of the temple and poured the ashes into the river below them.

_My life is hers_, Yané thought as Amidala's remains infused the waters of the Solleu and spilled over the cliff with the waterfall, _always and forever_.

* * *

I stand in one of the many bedrooms in Varykino, and I don't know why I've come here. If I seek answers, I won't find them here. All that remains in this villa is the ghost of Padmé Naberrie; I can hear her laughter in the hallways, high and childish, a sound that is foreign to me. She laughed with us, of course – life with her handmaidens was not always serious and dangerous – but we never heard the free and wild laughter that thunders in my ears now. I wonder that we did not know her as well as we thought we did.

This room is a nursery. Small but cozy, with great double doors that lead out onto a garden pathway. The doors have been opened, and the cool night air sloughs into the room. It's only half-decorated. Here and there, I find a few toys and infant's clothing, with room for so much more. One wall has a mural that will never be completed. I stare at it, recognizing stories that my nana told me at bedtime: dragon faeries help the Summer Princess as she undergoes the trials placed upon her by her cruel mother, lake-maids dance on the islands and sun their silver-blue scales under cloudless skies, and the talking animals of Posea act out their fables along the mural's borders.

The only item of furniture in the room is the bassinette, and I wonder whose hands spent so much time lovingly crafting its smooth contours and elegant curves. Soft travella dyed a soothing pale green lines the white wood, providing an inviting resting place for a child that will never arrive. A layer of dust motes rimes the soft cloth, tainting it with a dirty brown tinge.

Empty. Varykino is empty, except for the few ever-constant servants who scuttle about in mournful silence. They think I'm here because the family sent me to collect some items that belonged to Milady. I don't mind lying to them. Their eyes have secrets the way Ellé's and Motté's do, and fear walks with them. I have heard that Darth Vader is on his way to Naboo. This whole planet stinks of fear now.

One of the servants, a pale girl named Ashia, comes to the doorway and gazes at me with trepidation. She holds a flimsy close to her chest, as though it will protect her from me.

"Madame Berne?" she asks.

I turn my head ever so slightly, so that the hood obscures her from me. It also keeps her from seeing my disdainful eyes. "Yes?"

"A message has arrived for you," she says. She takes a tentative step into the room, her feet hidden under the pale hem of her dress. Lowering her eyes, she holds out the flimsy.

Without looking at her, I take the flimsy and glance at the message written on it. A cipher, and she must have realized that. She won't ask questions, she won't speak of it again. Fear will mute her for the rest of her life, as it will mute them all. Naboo will become a silent planet. It has already begun.

"You may go now," I say to her, and I turn my attention back to the nursery.

I wait until she is gone before reading the encrypted note. A request from Brand. I can guess what he has in mind. He was part of Milady's security detail on Coruscant, one of Typho's lieutenants. He'll be out making trouble for himself – all for the love of her memory, of course. I cannot deny that I will be any different. Naboo's voice will find other outlets.

Darth Vader will come to Naboo, and the gods only know what he will do here. But I will be gone long before he arrives.

I take a step toward the garden doors, hesitating as I pass the bassinette. I touch the mobile, and it half-jingles and half-whines five bars of a melody as familiar as my own name. It is only fitting that Amidala would give her child all the traditions of Naboo.

Not for the first time, I wonder who the father was. I wonder who had Amidala's heart. Motté and Ellé know, but they will not speak to us. They turn away when we approach, their soft shoes making shushing noises as they retreat from our silent questions and accusations. I have confessed to Rabé that I hate them; she's so gentle and kind that she forgives them, and she forgives me. She does not tell me I am unreasonable.

Because she understands. Like me, she is a misplaced handmaiden who continues to serve when none have any need of her. So many of our number seem to have forgotten who and what we are. We are loyal, we are true. We remember those who did die for Amidala, names left seared in our hearts forever: Sabé, Jolé, Cordé, Versé, Maré, Benté. Women who served and did not fail.

But what of those who served and still live? What are we now? Lost women, lost souls, embers scattered from a dying fire. We have heard the story of Milady's death, and I know that we do not all believe it. I could see doubt in Rabé's dark eyes, in the questioning tilt of Eirtaé's head. Ellé and Motté keep their maddening silence.

I run my hands along the edge of my hood, and I suddenly hate it. It hides me as the Empire wishes to hide the truth about Milady. No more of this. No more misdirection, no more foolery. Milady stood for truth; so should I.

I pull off my robe, and the hand-woven fabric rips at the seams. I don't care; it is as stifling as the constraints of this new Empire. This new Empire – this new Emperor! – is not what Milady fought for. I will have no part of it. I leave it lying on the floor of the nursery, and I run into the gardens, leaving Varykino behind me. Soon, I will leave Naboo too, but not forever. She is Naboo, and to abandon it would be to abandon her.

Milady will not be lost in the legends of a war that should never have been fought. Her ideals and teachings will not be drowned out by the methodical ordering of the Empire. Though she has passed, I will not be idle. I will not be useless. I pledged to serve. The fire of Milady's life may have been banked, but it has not been extinguished.

I will keep a light for her. Even if I be but one light, I will still burn, and no one can take that from me. My life is hers, always and forever.


End file.
